The Hunted
by Hand of Zarquon
Summary: A Paladin learns firsthand of the corruption in the Church of Zakarum.


THE HUNTED  
  
The tranquil forest exploded with sound as the man careened through it. Bits of leather flapping loose from a dozen punctures, one arm bloodied, face cut and bruised by thorns and branches, his worn boots thundered against the ground, trying to flee his pursuers. The blood pounded in his ears and his breath became ragged and gasping as he called upon every inner reserve of strength and stamina he possessed, not daring to look over his shoulder at the two bolts of quicksilver that were tearing after him. A sixth sense tingled in him and he ducked as a spear pierced the air that his head would have occupied; instead, it neatly severed the straps on his backpack, sending the canvas bag toppling to the ground in a shower of scrolls, tools and potions.  
  
Instinctively he changed direction, relying on less encumbrance and greater stamina to outdistance his better-armed and armored followers. He wished for a horse, or a helmet, or a better weapon, but he quickly shoved his wishes aside, knowing that they wouldn't help him. His muscles ached from running and his brain was a foggy haze that only knew how to run and fight. It was not so much stamina as sheer desperation that kept him running, barely one step ahead of his pursuers.  
  
Just four days ago he had been knighted by the King of Westmarch, given the full rank and station of a Paladin, a finely crafted longsword and a full suit of armor, and assigned to the party of a traveling Bishop. He had been training for years for that one day, giving his life over to the Eternal Light and the Church of Zakarum, pledging to uphold the Word and swearing to banish Evil wherever it might be found. Finally it was here; yet from the first his faith in the Religion of Light eroded. It was a slow process at first, quiet, nagging doubts that tugged at his conscience.  
  
It first came as the Bishop's escort was entering a small town in northeast Khanduras. Several of the Bishop's footmen had been sent forward to "give word of the Bishop's arrival" to the townspeople, but as they rode into the village, all of its denizens had formed at the town square looking none too happy. The mayor of the village was "escorted" by one of the footmen – who felt that it was necessary to have his sword drawn, for the mayor's protection. In a quavering, nervous voice, the mayor welcomed the Bishop to the town, extolling the virtues of Zakarum and saying how honored he was to have such a great emissary of Light in his humble town. At the end of the speech, the entire village, some eight score people, prostrated themselves before the Bishop, who blessed them all and explained that he would be very happy to have his party lodge the night in the mayor's house and attend the festival that they surely must be planning for them.  
  
All of this struck the new Paladin as somewhat odd, although he accepted the evening's food, drink, and shelter graciously, preferring not to avail himself on the fine wine and spirits that the rest of his party eagerly drank. When he tried to excuse himself for an evening prayer, the Bishop ordered him to sit and drink, explaining that he would give his knight an indulgence for one missed prayer. That night, very obviously drunk, the Bishop took one of the mayor's daughters to his bedchamber, saying that he wished to give her a private baptism. Without so much as a goodnight he slammed and locked the door. Aghast, the mayor and his wife made to force the Bishop to release their daughter but two of his guard firmly blocked the door, and when the mayor still persisted, they beat him senseless with the hafts of their spears and tied he and his wife in chairs, within earshot of the lecherous exclamations of the bishop and the cries of their daughter. The Paladin could not believe the actions of his master and went so far as to question them. His companions, fellow paladins, merely berated him for second-guessing the Bishop and said that, as a high-ranking officer of the Light, he had the authority to do as he wished to these "uncouth scum." Then they told him in no uncertain terms that it would be in his best interest to let the matter alone and sleep. He thought that it was the most sensible thing he'd heard all day and took their advice.  
  
The next morning, the Bishop emerged from his room, the sobs of the mayor's daughter still audible from the bed. He thanked the mayor for his hospitality and said that, in return for the lodging, he would deliver the morning Mass free of charge. The Bishop sent his footmen into the town, making sure every person was in attendance at the small church, and launched into his sermon. But the Paladin felt that something was wrong. The Bishop did more than just preach to his audience – he controlled them. He commanded them to repent their sins, and, amazingly, all of them fell to their knees, weeping and begging for forgiveness. All of them, that is, except for one man who was so old that he could not understand nor respond to the Bishop's talk. The Paladin saw rage flicker across the Bishop's face but he soon forced a smile back on and told the crowd that their sins could be absolved with a generous donation to the Church of Light. Amazingly, despite the obvious poverty of the village, the tearful villagers filled the Bishop's strongbox within moments. The Mass ended shortly thereafter, but the Bishop pulled the Paladin aside and spoke with him in hushed tones.  
  
"Did you see the old man that had the audacity to stand while the rest of his village gave themselves over to the Light?"  
  
The Paladin merely nodded.  
  
"I wish for you to…determine whether he is a true follower of Zakarum. Talk with him, pray for him. Use whatever means necessary. If he is an unbeliever…" The Bishop trailed off, looking the Paladin hard in the eyes.  
  
"I know what to do."  
  
"Very good."  
  
He set off at once to the old man's cottage. It was a shoddy, dilapidated old building with a thatch roof that somehow managed to stay upright and stone walls that still let the cold in. A young woman – his daughter, he assumed – answered the door as the Paladin knocked on it. She was thin and weary-looking, her long brown hair unkempt and barely contained by a dirty white scarf. The rest of her clothes were very homely, a torn white blouse covered in parti-colored patches and a brown dress that had holes and rips very much in evidence. Upon seeing him, she began to weep.  
  
"Please…go away. You have already taken all the gold we own. Do not harm us."  
  
"I won't harm you," said the Paladin in the gentlest tone he could manage. "I just wish to talk to your father. Please let me in."  
  
Resigned, she opened the door, allowing the Paladin to enter. The old man was sitting at a table, a mass of bones barely held together underneath his worn clothes and dappled, loose skin. What remained of his wispy white hair fell about his neck, and his mouth hung open as bits of oatmeal dripped down his chin. His glazed blue eyes, seeing yet not comprehending, followed the armored stranger around the room. The Paladin rubbed his hands together in front of the meager fire, then sat across from him at the rough wooden table, the woman standing over her father as she fussily wiped off the drool and oatmeal from his face. The Paladin opened his mouth to speak and watched the old man's face as his eyes wandered to his daughter. He realized that it was futile to speak to the old man – he could not answer. His task was done here. He stood up and excused himself from the table.  
  
"Thank you for your time. I…am sorry that the Bishop took your money." He sighed and looked around the ramshackle house. "May the Light watch over you." He realized that this family would need all the help they could get, and sadly, he walked out the door.  
  
He was surprised to find the Bishop standing there, a scowl on his weathered face. "He is still alive."  
  
The Paladin raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Yes, he is, your Eminence. He is too old and infirm to be a heretic even if he wanted to. He cannot speak, he cannot eat by himself…"  
  
"Nevertheless, he has committed heresy by action. You saw him in the church, did you not?" Anger began to edge its way into the Bishop's voice. "Get back in there and kill that man, that…unbeliever!"  
  
"Your Eminence, be reasonable!"  
  
The Bishop's eyes flashed a shade of red and spit flew off of his tongue as he spat out his response. "How dare you say that to me! How dare you lecture me! I dedicate my life to ferreting out evil and now a day-old Paladin whelp questions me!" His eyes returned to their original shade, restraint settling over the man's features. "Tread lightly, young Paladin. Your questions may be the death of you some day."  
  
The Paladin backed away, hands raised. "You are right, your Eminence…perhaps my judgment was clouded. Perhaps it would be best to…send another to double-check." The words tore at his conscience, screaming at him to do otherwise, but he could not. Fear and doubt paralyzed his voice from taking back his words. Confused, he retreated back to where the Bishop's party was preparing to move on. The Bishop returned shortly, mounting his horse without a word to anyone except to order the party forward.  
  
"Your Eminence, what of the old man?"  
  
The Bishop turned in his saddle and eyed the Paladin, responding in a playful tone that dripped of sarcasm. "Still more questions? Alas, I am getting too old for this. As for the old man, I have personally interviewed him and have made my decision regarding him." A fake smile grew on the Bishop's wizened face, malicious and cunning. The Paladin was chilled to the bone by it but simply rode on in stoic silence. The threatening gray clouds that had formed on the horizon now had overtaken the party, and the Bishop ordered the party to a halt.  
  
"The horses are getting tired," he lied, "and they will do us no good if they get stuck in the mud. So we shall rest for a while." He turned to the hapless Paladin, the cold, evil smile showing itself again. "In the meantime, my son, you are to be given a great honor and a chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Church of Zakarum. Go back to the village…and kill the heretic."  
  
The Paladin shuddered and opened his mouth but the Bishop merely continued, his eyes dancing with a sadistic pleasure. "My footmen will accompany you. Go now, and do not come back without the head of the old man."  
  
What else could he do? He had no choice but to go back and hope that he would think of a way to escape. Gathering only his longsword and backpack, he started off back towards the village, missing the look that passed between the Bishop and his lackeys. They nodded knowingly and set off after him.  
  
It was not long before the rain had spent itself and they continued trudging back along the road. The Paladin had set a blistering pace, and the footmen, loaded with heavy weapons and full suits of armor, were becoming hot and tired in the sticky evening. They gamely kept up with him, though. At last the village came into view just over the horizon. Relieved, the three footmen collapsed to the ground, shedding helmets and backpacks.  
  
"Wait here," commanded the Paladin. "I'll be back soon."  
  
The footmen were too tired to argue and the Paladin thanked the Light that he had managed to avoid his pursuers. Now all that was left was to tell the old man and his daughter to flee as fast and as far as they could. He would give them all of his gold and some food, and when he got back he would tell the Bishop that the old man was indeed an evil spirit that had changed shape and attacked him, stealing his money, and it was only because of the blessings of the Light that he had escaped unharmed. He found the right cottage, and, with a sigh of relief, knocked on the door.  
  
"Come in," said a very familiar voice.  
  
Without warning the door burst open and out stepped the Bishop, eyes gleaming red, blood staining his clerical robes, a blood-smeared knife in one hand, the dripping head of the old man in the other. The Paladin stepped back and retched as the Bishop laughed cruelly.  
  
"So! Are you as quick to embrace the teachings of Zakarum now, young Paladin?" Without thinking, the Paladin drove his longsword into the Bishop's chest. Blood spewed out of the torn robes, drenching the Paladin, but the Bishop kept laughing. "Fool! You cannot stop us!" He clutched at the Paladin's shoulders with yellowed and brittle nails. "Join us! Walk into the Light!" Finally, with a last hysterical scream, the Bishop collapsed, his body turning into a fine dust as it hit the ground. Then the Paladin heard a thundering of hooves from behind him. The Bishop's knights bore down on him, wielding battle-axes and swords. He dove away from them, blades cleaving the air above him. He looked up in horror as he saw that they were not really men but demons, their red eyes glinting from under their helmets. They wheeled their horses around and came after him, and the Paladin had no choice but to flee. Shouts and screams came from the villagers as he saw the rest of the guards carrying burning brands, lighting houses on fire, killing innocent bystanders with all sorts of weapons. Bells tolled out from the church steeple, a futile warning, before it too was ablaze, crimson flames lapping at the bell tower, forcing the ringer to jump to his death.  
  
The Paladin felt a rage burning within him. He could not just let these villagers die. He had to stand and fight. Tensed up like a hunting cat, he waited until the riders were on top of him and then launched himself at the foremost, ducking beneath its clumsy attack, lifting off its helmet and strangling it with all of his strength. The crimson eyes flared beneath the greenish, wrinkled face, and its jagged teeth gnashed at him in a desperate attempt to break his stranglehold – but the Paladin's fury was too much for the demon knight and it lost consciousness, drooping in the saddle. The Paladin snatched up its sword and buckler, wheeling the steed around to face his enemies. Another came at him, wielding a battle-axe, and instead of meeting the blow he ducked under it and used the momentum of his opponent to throw it off of its horse. He was about to turn and finish off the grounded rider when he felt a huge weight crash into his shield arm. He cried out in pain as he felt bone shatter and skin break, but he counterattacked viciously, short sword stabbing and hacking at the demon until it was bleeding in a dozen places. But with its last ounce of strength, the demon brought its mace down upon his horse, killing it outright. The Paladin leaped off of his dead steed, yelling and shouting defiance to the remainder of the footmen that were still wreaking havoc in the village, trying to get their attention so they would leave the helpless villagers – what remained of them – alone. Next to him he heard groans as the two downed riders stirred awake and began to get up. In the distance he saw the footmen start to come in his direction – for him.  
  
He ran.  
  
And now, two days later, he was still running, pursued by both men and demon, afoot and mounted. His stamina was draining fast. Sleep and food were distant memories to him. He knew that he would have no choice but to turn and fight a battle that he could not possibly win. In the distance he saw a grove of trees – that would be where he would make his stand. But something was wrong with them. He wiped sweat, blood and dust out of his eyes with his undamaged hand and peered harder. They weren't trees – they were walls of an encampment! He prayed that his deliverance would lie there…and then before he knew it he was sprawled on the ground, his left leg caught in a protruding tree root.  
  
No! Rage boiled up inside of him. He would not let himself die so close to what could be his salvation. He stood up, his leg screaming in protest, and limped forward as fast as he could. But would it be enough? He could feel the demons' gaze on his back, see their armor and weapons glinting in the sunlight. Come on! He urged himself onward, ignoring the pain, praying for the strength to go just a little farther. Suddenly one of the demon riders was on top of him. Frantically he brought up his damaged arm, his broken hand clutching a small buckler, and it saved his life, deflecting the blade enough to allow him to roll out of the way despite the pain that washed through his arm and leg. Then he heard a grunt of pain, and to his surprise there was a stick lodged in the demon's helmet. Then another flew through the air, finding its mark in the demon's leg. Followed by another and another and another until he realized that they were arrows – someone was helping him! He half-crawled, half-dragged himself towards the palisade as shouts filled the air. A stream of women poured out of the encampment, releasing arrows in an angry cloud. His pursuers cried out in fury, then turned and ran from the onslaught.  
  
The last thing the Paladin saw before he let himself succumb to unconsciousness was a gentle face wreathed in a purple cowl. "I am Akara," it said. "You're safe now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Diablo and its characters are the property of Blizzard. I don't own them…if I did, I would have forced the inclusion of "Kill-O-Zap" and "Hitchhikers'" as magical prefixes. 


End file.
